


Recompense

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is kidnapped. Anders, of <i>course</i>, is the only one close enough to go after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders stretches his arms above his head and arches his back, wincing as his spine pops and crackles. “Maker,” he mutters to himself, then calls out, “All right, next.”

It’s been a long day, but his services are desperately needed here, and he’ll keep his doors open until sunset or later. A young man comes through, supporting a wizened old woman. Anders recognizes them. “Ester!” He comes over and shuts the door behind them, then helps the woman to a chair. “Your knee nagging at you again?”

She nods, scowling. “Bloody thing aches like shit. What d’you think about chopping my leg off? Wooden one probably don’t hurt as much.”

Anders lets out a faintly aghast chuckle. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. I’ll just take a quick—“

The door bursts open.

A young boy stands there, breathing hard. Behind him, a man and a very pregnant woman glare. Anders recognizes the boy too. “Alfonse.” He stands. “What is it?”

Alfonse points behind him. “I saw some men taking your friend!”

Shit.

Anders kneels in front of him. “What friend? Where were you—sorry. Just start from the beginning.”

“The one with the white hair.” Alfonse gestures to his head. Fenris. ‘Friend’ is a bit strong, but still, this is bad. If these people managed to grab him, they must be good at what they do. “Me and Marie were playing at Fishknife Square and he was walking past us, and then the whole square just—everyone started running toward him, they were all waiting, and me and Marie hid in an alley and watched them all fighting. They got him with something and he went down—“

“Something? Magic?”

Alfonse shakes his head. “Poison, I saw the knife. They wrapped him up real quick and started carrying him, so we followed them, and we figured they were heading toward the market gate so I sent Marie to stay on them and I came to get you. She’ll be waiting at the gate if they’ve left.”

Left the city. Shit. No time to run for backup—if he waits any longer he’ll lose them. He’s the only one close enough to help.

So it appears he’ll be staging a rescue effort this evening for the man who hates him more than anyone else does, except maybe the templars. “Thanks, Alfonse. Stay here until I get back, would you? There’s food in the kitchen. And tell everyone I’m closed.” He stands. “I’m sorry, Ester. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, I promise.”

“Oh, no worries. You go save your friend now.”

Friend. Right. “That’s the plan,” he mutters, and goes to retrieve his staff. “Alfonse, is there anything else you can tell me about the people who took Fenris? Were there any mages?”

“I don’t think so. Just a lot of knives. There were eight and they were good, got to him before he could draw his sword.”

All right. A small chance then. Armed now, Anders dashes out the door.

He sprints through the streets, sliding around corners, calling out so that people get out of his way and he doesn’t smack into anyone. The gate isn’t far, and he’s there inside of ten minutes. There’s a little girl loitering beside it, familiar—Alfonse’s friend, Marie. He treated her once for a broken hand. She spots him and runs forward. “He got in a wagon. It was big, there were four horses up front. Two were brown, one was black, one was red.”

“Wait—he got in? I thought they knocked him out.”

“They did, but they woke him up just over there.” She nods over Anders’s shoulder, to a dark space between two buildings. “He looked confused, but he could walk. They led him into the wagon.”

Blood magic? Maybe just drugs. “All right, thanks. Go back to my clinic and stay there, Alfonse is waiting.”

“Be careful, there was a lot of them.”

“I will.”

She runs off. Good. Now he needs a horse.

The stables are right by the gates, and house the horses of all the travelers who don’t want to be seen passing through the main gates, or of the farmers who’ve come into the city to sell their bruised or misshapen produce to the only people who will buy it. He ducks in and scans for the best-looking horse. A tall black one at the end. He goes to it and unlocks the gate—

“Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?”

Stableboy. Shit. Anders turns. “…I’ll bring it back?”

“I don’t care.” He draws a club. “Fuck off before I knock your head in.”

Anders sighs to himself. The citizens of Darktown can always be counted on for their charity. “How much?”

“Eh?”

“How much do I have to bribe you so you’ll let me take this horse?”

“Oh. Fifteen sovereigns?”

An absurd price, but Anders doesn’t have time to haggle. He digs for his emergency stash on the inside of his robes and hands over the named price. The stableboy hesitates, made bold by the lack of resistance. “Er—I don’t know, maybe twenty-five might do it—“

“Do you  _want_  me to set you on fire?”

“Fifteen! Excellent.” The stableboy snatches the coin from Anders’s hands. “She’s all yours.”

“Price like that had better include you saddling her for me.”

“Course, ser. Bridle too? Might take a bit, I don’t know which one’s hers.”

Shit. “No time.” He’ll have to go without.

The sun descends as Anders gallops down the dirt road. The horse responds to the shifting of his weight in the saddle—not as quick as she would to reins, but he doesn’t need maneuverability. He just needs to catch up. He doubts the kidnappers will be in much of a hurry—a wagon going at a gallop would be somewhat suspicious—so he should spot them before too long. In the meantime, he can plan strategy. Setting them all on fire seems like a good idea, but he doesn’t want to set Fenris on fire too. He could freeze them, and when he inevitably misses a couple and they run at him, then…he can try to set them on fire before they stab him dead. Bit chancy, that.

The sullen flicker at the back of his mind. Justice. Whom he may need to call on here, although each time he does, he feels his control slipping just a little bit more. The last thing he needs. If Fenris sees him taken over by a spirit—Anders doesn’t think he can take on Fenris, especially if the kidnappers manage to injure him first. Those tattoos— _repel_  magic somehow.

But, Maker willing, it won’t come to that. Ice first, then fire. And lots of praying.

He passes carts, a few lone riders trudging forward into the gathering dusk, and leaves them all behind. He needs a wagon, drawn by a team of four. His horse gallops forward, steady and even. There, in the distance. A square trundling shape. Anders spurs his horse. Ice. Fire. Praying.

They see him through the back window from fifty yards off. Too far away to start casting. Not too far for bows, though, which Anders discovers when he sees in the dim light a small black missile flying toward him. Tracking it with his eyes, he flings a hand out, crumpling the Veil around it. The arrow shatters apart in a small explosion of flame, the pieces still falling as he charges past it. More arrows pierce the air. Shooting at him when they don’t even know who he is or if he’s streaking down the road for some other reason than pursuit? They must be getting paid  _very_  well.

It’s fine. He’s been shot at plenty over the past few years, and he knows how to defend himself by now. The carriage starts trundling faster, but Anders keeps his horse at a gallop, holding on hard with both legs. He’s gaining. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. Straining his senses, he seeks out the Veil—and feels it there, barely, complete with the faint distortion from Fenris’s lyrium.

He reaches out, combing the Veil through his fingers. In the furrows between the temperature drops to a cold that isn’t found anywhere in Thedas. A couple of people fall frozen from the open back doors. Perfect. Anders pulls the Veil taut around them, thin enough for tongues of flame to lick through, to slip under their armor and dive hungrily into their flesh.

His horse screams. Arrows. Shit. Anders leans forward, finds the arrow stuck in her chest and yanks it out, then presses his hand to the bloody hole and sends a flush of healing magic through her flesh. She whinnies and presses on. Fifteen yards. Another arrow, shot down. Damn, but they’re hard to see in this light. Ten yards. Five.

Anders draws up alongside the wagon and drags the Veil apart. A fissure of flame opens in the air, and the driver screams. Three down, five to go. The team of horses doesn’t slow. Anders spots the roller bolt between the driver’s feet and clasps his fist in the air.

The bolt explodes, and the traces fall free of the wagon. The team pounds on ahead while the wagon begins to roll to a stop. Anders leans, and his horse wheels around.

They pour out of the wagon into the dusk. He counts, keeping his horse at a canter as he circles behind them. One, two, three, four. And the fifth—dragging Fenris with him. Oh, these bastards.

Anders lashes out with one hand, pawing aside the Veil, making way for a spray of ice to leap out at the gathered soldiers—slavers? Hard to tell. They’ve got nice armor, that much is obvious. He only catches one—trying not to get Fenris—arrows,  _shit,_ one, two he shoots out of the air, but the third gets his horse’s flank. She whinnies in pain. More used to pulling carts than riding in combat. Damn it all. She goes down, that’s his biggest advantage gone. Anders leans, guiding her back around the wagon. One of the archers fans out to follow him. Idiot. Anders twists in the saddle, claps his hands. Two sheets of fire crash over the man, and he screams, collapsing. The rest were smart enough to stay with their human (elven) shield.

He thinks of drawing his staff. His attacks will be faster, certainly, but less precise, and it’s harder to cast while he’s holding it. The staff stays on his back. As he comes around the other side of the wagon, a pair of archers are waiting for him, but he’s ready and takes their arrows out with a single sweep of flame. They slip back behind the wagon, and Anders canters forward—

—to find a third archer, bow drawn. The arrow gets Anders’s horse in the leg. She screams and staggers; then the leg collapses, and she falls sideways.

Not a hard fall, but Anders’s leg is still trapped under her. Good thing he doesn’t need that to cast, although he does need it to run away, which he will have to do in a moment if he’s to get out of this alive. He casts wildly, throwing out bursts of ice with one hand while using the other to drag himself back. Cover enough, almost—one of them gets close, stabbing downward with a dagger. Anders raises a forearm to block, catching the man’s wrist and diverting his stab into the dirt. Shit. The others will be coming. Anders makes a messy jab at the man’s nose, gets lucky on the angle, feels blood bursting over his closed fingers. He plants his foot on the horse’s back and shoves.

Free, finally, but he doesn’t have time to stand because the others are here, one of them with Fenris in tow. He might be able to cast once— _might,_  and it won’t be enough, they’re too scattered, but he tries anyway, reaching out once more for the Veil, feeling it—slow, too slow, they’re here—

He lashes out. The Veil obeys him—belongs to him, and a graceful swirl of ice spirals around him with vicious precision. It catches the first of the pair running forward, as well as the one whose nose he smashed. They freeze in place, their flesh black and dead.

Which leaves just one to kill.

Anders rises. The last man stumbles back, fear flickering on his face, and jams his knife up under Fenris’s jaw. “Don’t move! Don’t move or I kill the elf!”

Fenris stands with arms at his sides, looking mildly disoriented but nothing else. This would have been easier with his help. But it seems he cannot help. There’s a white glow at the edges of Anders’s vision, piercing the gloom of dusk. He glances down at himself. Oh. It’s him. He’s glowing again. Hadn’t even noticed.

The man retreats up the road. Anders watches him go.  _Don’t move or I kill the elf._ Such an ultimatum is predicated on the assumption that when the man sees Anders moving, he will still be in a condition to consummate his threat.

The cracks of white smolder warmly on Anders’s skin. He must be quite visible in the gathering dark. It will be a gamble, with Fenris’s life as the prize. Or the price. But such a loss is not so great a tragedy as to dissuade him.

Justice raises his hand, a bright blade cutting the night. He does not need to reach for the Veil. The Veil is his. It spikes out, pulling ice from the air. There’s a faint distortion just at that spot. The lyrium, still there, still restless. Would it die if Fenris did?

The two silhouettes stand shadowed and murky past the wagon. There are no cries of pain or surprise. No twitches of deadly movement.

Anders limps up the road—his ankle’s hurt, must have got twisted under the horse. “Fenris?”

No response.

The grip of terror in his gut. He can’t have failed. He can’t have. “Fenris? Are you there?”

Silence. He squints, drawing closer. “Are you all right?”

A frozen statue. And beside it, Fenris, watching Anders, the knife still jammed up under his jaw. His neck is clean of blood.

“Oh, Maker, Fenris—“ Anders stumbles forward, tips Fenris’s chin up, and guides him gingerly away from the knife and out of the frozen statue’s grip. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

No response. Fenris just stands there, waiting.

Definitely something wrong with him. They didn’t have mages, or he would have seen them during the fight. So it’s got to be poison. “Can I try and heal you? I think you’ve been drugged. I might be able to help.”

Again, no response. Anders decides to give up on those. Very gently, he rests his fingertips on Fenris’s forearm. Fenris does not break his hand or smash a palm into his skull—that’s good, at least. Anders moves his fingers up Fenris’s forearm, smoothing the Veil over his skin so he can see the shape of Fenris’s body and what isn’t right—

The lyrium brands flare bright, and Anders jerks his hand away. “Ow,” he whispers. That burned—not physically, but magically, the Veil deforming and turning on him. Fenris flinches, watches him with terrified eyes. Anders sighs. “All right, maybe magic’s not such a good idea." He doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere, at least. So perhaps the healing can wait. "How about I get you back to Kirkwall?”

No response.

“Do you understand anything I’m saying?”

No response.

Anders stops and thinks for a minute. He can’t leave Fenris in the middle of the road with eight corpses scattered haphazard about him. And he can’t  _ask_  Fenris to come with him, because apparently language is something this drug holds prisoner, for the moment, at least. He could sling Fenris over his shoulder and throw him on the horse, although he would  _really_  not like to do that, not while Fenris is still so confused and afraid.

So Anders decides to start smaller. He reaches out and holds Fenris’s arm—lightly, with no magic this time, and the lyrium does not react. Good. “Let’s go home,” Anders says, and tugs, just a little.

Fenris hesitates, then starts walking.

Ah. Perhaps there will be no throwing over shoulders after all. Anders limps forward, and Fenris comes with him—wavering some, Anders notices, and staggering as he goes down the road. But they reach the horse without either of them falling over. “Hang on a minute,” Anders says, and kneels. He tugs the arrow out of her flank, and then the second from her leg, and lays his hands on her. He isn’t glowing anymore. Well, that’s something.

Healing a horse is only slightly more difficult than healing a person, and in a minute her wounds are closed, and she scrambles back to her feet. Anders pats her back. “Fenris, do you remember how to mount?”

Fenris hovers, tentative. His eyes slide from the saddle to Anders to the saddle again. Then he grasps it, steps into the stirrup, and hauls himself up.

Only to start falling backwards. Anders darts forward and plants a hand on Fenris’s ass, another on his lower back. It’s a stable hold, and the fall is aborted before anyone can crack their head open on the dirt. Anders grimaces, shoving Fenris up onto the horse. “You are a  _lot_  heavier than you look, you know that?”

Fenris swings his leg over the saddle and does not respond. Anders winces. “Listen, I know you don’t understand me, but I’m sorry for grabbing your ass, I had to, and please don’t kill me when you wake up from all this.”

Fenris stares blankly ahead. Perfect. Anders mounts behind him and readies himself for death. The horse dances sideways a little—not used to carrying this much weight, probably. They’ll have to take it slow. Anders rotates his ankle a bit. Still twinges. Definitely something wrong. Well, he’ll work on it when he gets back. He clicks his tongue and presses his heels into the horse’s flanks.

She starts forward. Fenris begins to slip sideways, and he grasps for the saddlehorn; Anders wraps both arms around him to take hold of the saddlehorn himself. It’s quite easy. “You know, you could really stand to eat more,” Anders observes.

Fenris is quiet. The evening is quiet. Anders sighs quietly. “What a bloody mess.”

They go at a walk. Fenris’s back shifts against Anders’s chest with the rhythm of the horse’s gait. They’ve never been this close to each other for this long. Normally Fenris would no doubt be hissing a long string of acerbic comments at him, and Anders would of course be commenting right back, and a fight might break out right there in the saddle, at which point Anders would probably have his heart ripped out in about three seconds as Fenris has the overwhelming advantage at close range.

But instead Fenris is quiet. Docile, almost. The thought makes Anders shift in discomfort.

By the time they reach the city gates again the sun has disappeared behind the horizon and the sky is a deep purple-black. Anders guides the horse through the streets of Darktown, receiving irritated glares from the passers-by who must flatten themselves against the walls to avoid being trampled. But this is both faster and safer than going on foot. He hopes his reputation will protect his clinic from retributive robbery or vandalism.

He squints up at the sky and mutters an oath. It really is getting dark. He had thought vaguely of taking Fenris up to Hightown and leaving him with Hawke—he’d probably feel safest waking up there—but the street gangs will be out in force. Fenris can’t defend himself, and Anders isn’t sure he could defend both of them, not if they run across someone with a grudge.

“Shit. All right,” he tells Fenris. “You get to spend the night with me. I know, you must be positively  _thrilled.”_

If Fenris is thrilled, he makes no signal to indicate that.

At last the clinic comes into view, and Anders leans back in the saddle. The horse slows, then stops. He dismounts, then holds out a hand to Fenris. “Here.”

Fenris gazes at his hand, bemused—but then takes it and slips off the saddle onto the ground. Less danger-fraught then ass-grabbing. Anders knocks on the door. “It’s me, you can let us in!”

The lock clicks, and Alfonse peers out. “You said there was food in the back.”

“Well—wasn’t there?”

“There was vegetables. Just raw vegetables. Is that what you eat?” Alfonse shakes his head in disapproval and steps back to let them past. “We made soup.”

Oh. He had meant to do that earlier. Apparently he didn’t. He takes Fenris’s arm again and guides him inside. The clinic smells of garlic and rosemary. Anders doesn’t think he had any rosemary. Alfonse or Marie must have gone out and got some.

“Are you all right?” Alfonse asks Fenris.

Fenris doesn’t even look at him. Anders jumps in. “Er, he’s very confused. Doesn’t really understand what anyone says right now. I sort of had to coax him back here. Listen, do you think you could take that horse outside back to the stables quickly, before someone steals it? You can still have dinner here, of course.”

“Course I can. I helped make it, didn’t I?” He turns and goes, shoving the door shut behind him.

Anders brings Fenris over to a chair and tugs his arm down a little. He sits placidly. “How’s that soup looking?” Anders calls.

From the back Marie replies, “I think it’s ready!”

Bowls. Shit. Anders thinks he has three. Hopefully one of them will be done by the time Alfonse gets back. “Stay here, all right?” he says to Fenris, not that it’ll do anything, and limps into the back where Marie’s on tiptoes stirring the big pot of soup she’s got going on the stove. Two bowls on the shelf. “Oh, come on,” he mutters. He  _knows_  there are three—oh, there’s the last one.

A high-pitched squeak. A grey-white cat blinks up at him from the corner, her tail curling. Ellen. He hasn’t seen her for a few days. There’s a saucer of scraps (nearly empty) in front of her, and the last bowl half-full of water. Anders used to put the water in a saucer as well, but he broke his second-to-last one a few days ago.  _Should go buy more,_  he thinks, just like he thinks every morning about how he should buy a second chair, or a desk that doesn’t wobble, or a blanket that hasn’t been shredded by sharp little claws. He has the money for it, it just—never seems important, somehow. He picks up the bowl and gives Ellen a scratch between the ears. She trots past him and out of the kitchen as he gives the bowl a quick wash. “There.” He holds it out. “I’ll take some out to Fenris.”

Then he realizes Marie is hardly tall enough to stir the soup, let alone ladle it without spilling it everywhere. So he does it himself and plucks a spoon from the cabinet, slipping past Marie into the main room.

Fenris is sitting on the floor. Ellen sits between his crossed legs. His arms are around her, and her tail flicks happily. Even from here Anders can hear the purring. He stares. That’s the first thing Fenris has done on his own, without being directed or prompted. Anders comes over and crouches, setting the bowl aside. “Why don’t I get your gauntlets off before you start petting her?”

No response. The asking, of course, being rather superfluous. Anders pries one of Fenris’s arms out and starts pulling at the buckles of his gauntlet. A minute later and his gauntlets, spaulders, and breastplate are piled under the desk. Ellen licks inquisitively at his bare arms. Anders holds out the soup. “Here. Are you hungry?”

Fenris looks up at him, then the bowl, then the cat. “It’s all right,” Anders says. “I think she’ll stick around.”

Fenris stares a moment longer, then reaches out and takes the bowl. But of course he doesn’t start eating, so Anders mimes the act with an imaginary bowl and spoon. “Go ahead.”

Fenris, tentative, lifts a spoonful of soup and slips it into his mouth. He swallows and dips the spoon back in, this time coming up with a slice of parsnip. Ellen settles down inside his folded legs.

Anders waits until both Alfonse and Marie have eaten before he serves himself. Smoke wanders in for a bit and also takes to Fenris inside of ten seconds, but he’s quickly distracted by the children. He’s young and still a kitten at heart, and as they play with him Anders tries to inspect Fenris a little closer. Fenris’s pupils are slow to accommodate, his hands are clumsy, and his strength when he grips Anders’s finger is far below where it should be, although that might be due to the confusion. He hasn’t gotten any better since Anders found him, either.

Well, hopefully after a good night’s rest he’ll show some improvement.

Anders chases Alfonse and Marie out eventually, after thanking them again for tailing Fenris’s attackers and bringing the news to the clinic. Smoke goes with them, twining around their ankles.

Which leaves Anders with one drugged elf, plus a very affectionate cat.  

First he digs up the bedroll he’s had since his Warden days and spreads it out next to his bed—changes the sheets on the bed, too, and pulls an extra blanket out of the shabby pile in the corner. Then he limps over to Fenris, grasping his arm gently and tugging him to get him to stand. “All right, time to turn in.”

Fenris resists. That’s new. He looks up at Anders with wide eyes, his fingers still sunk in Ellen’s pale fur. Oh. “Here, you can take her with you.” Anders crouches, picks Ellen up, and holds her out.

Fenris takes her in his arms. None of the usual brusqueness there. Instead he holds her as if she is the most precious creature in the world. She sits in his arms like a loaf of bread and lets out a contented squeak.

When Anders tries again Fenris stands without complaint and goes to the cramped bedroom. Anders gestures at the bed. “It’s all yours. Not much better than the floor, to be honest, but it’s something.”

Fenris sits on the edge of it. Ellen squirms out of his grasp and arranges herself on the mattress instead, her paws tucked under her. Fenris lies down, still watching her. Anders pulls the covers up over him. “There. You two sleep well now.”

Fenris’s eyes flick up. They really are  _very_ green. “I’ll be here if you need me,” Anders tells him, indicating the bedroll.

No response.

Anders sighs and settles down to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Ellen is still there in the morning.

As is Fenris. That’s a relief. Anders was half-afraid he’d wake up not knowing what happened and flee during the night. But he’s still there, sleeping peacefully. Anders sits up and stretches with a great yawn, then gathers some clothes from his sagging wardrobe.

He peers over his shoulder. Fenris is still very much dead to the world. Should he…

No, not worth the risk. He goes and changes in the kitchen. Might as well get breakfast going while he’s here. Except he doesn’t have any food, minus maybe a cup of leftover soup. He rubs his eyes and rustles around in the pantry, just in case.

Where he discovers a loaf of bread and some eggs that definitely were not here when he left yesterday. It seems Alfonse and Marie got him more than rosemary. Struck by an idea, Anders shuffles around in the spice rack and finds a pinch of ground cinnamon and half a jar of sugar. Royeaux toast, then. Anders conjures up a little flame, laying over it an ancient cast-iron pan.

A few minutes later and he’s sneaking back into the bedroom with a pair of plates balanced on one arm and two mugs of water clutched in the other hand. After a moment’s consideration he sets them down on the far end of the room and approaches the bed. “Fenris?”

No response.

Anders reaches out with utmost caution and grasps Fenris’s shoulder, shaking him gently.

Fenris starts. Anders leaps back, as does Ellen. But Fenris only sits up, bleary and blinking. “What happened? Where am I?”

Anders relaxes. “It’s all right, you’re safe. You’re at the clinic.”

Fenris looks down at himself, his face fracturing in horror. “Where’s my armor?”

“Under my desk. I helped you take it off last night before we ate.”

Fenris stares at the tangled blankets, the horror still flickering on his face. Ellen trots over and hops up on the bed again, stepping in between his legs and licking at his hand. He shakes himself slightly, lifts her and places her aside. “Would you mind removing this creature?”

Anders is speechless for a moment, incredulous. “This  _creature?_ Last night you couldn’t stop petting her! You almost cried when I tried to separate the two of you.”

Fenris’s fingers ball in the sheets. “I understand why you might think it would be harmless, but please do not lie to me when I’m having trouble remembering what has happened to me.”

“I—I’m not lying!” Anders, abashed, scrambles to correct him. “I’m not a  _complete_  ass. I swear to the Maker it’s true, you were petting her for at least an hour.”

Fenris is quiet. Ellen sits between his legs again, and this time he doesn’t move her. “I don’t remember that,” he mutters.

“Do you…still want me to put her out?”

He shakes his head.

Anders exhales. He was afraid Fenris, on waking confused, would try to kill him. This might be an even more precarious situation. “Well—what’s the last thing you  _do_  remember?”

“Being attacked.” Fenris’s lip curls in self-disgust. “Because I let my guard down. I have grown negligent, it seems.”

Anders limps across the room, picks up one of the mugs and hands it over. “Well, it’s been a while. Three years, isn’t it? Since he sent that woman after you?”

“Hadriana. And yes, but that is no excuse.” Fenris takes the mug and sips at it. “I was attacked, and one of them cut me. And then…I woke up here.” He lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a smeared line of dried blood at his waist.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t see that earlier. Here, I’ll take care of it.” Anders kneels.

Fenris drops his shirt. “It’s all right, it’s not very deep.”

“Really, it’s no trouble.” Anders uncovers the wound again. Fenris does not protest further, so he gets to work. “I can tell you what I know, if you like.”

“I…yes. Thank you.”

Anders heals as he talks, and limps over to retrieve the plates of toast when the wound is closed. He describes the soldiers and their tactics as best he can—well-made armor but no insignias, and plainly not used to fighting mages. Fenris eats, thoughtful.

But when he hears how Anders found him, he stops eating.

“It didn’t seem like you understood anything I said, but you got the idea quick enough from gestures. When I patted the horse’s back, you mounted.” Anders hesitates. Best to get this over with. “Although—you started to fall, and I had to catch you, and I sort of ended up with my hand on your ass. Sorry. You didn’t seem to mind at the time, but I thought I should tell you in case you remember later and come storming down here to—”

“I didn’t—I didn’t seem to mind?” Fenris interrupts. “I didn’t say anything?”

“You didn’t say anything at all until this morning. And no, you just—sat there and waited for me to shove you back up.” Anders pops another bite of toast in his mouth. “It seemed like you could be directed easily enough, even if you didn’t understand _why_  you were doing what you were doing.”

Fenris is still for a moment. Then he puts his plate aside and covers his face with his hands.

Anders, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, supposes he had realized how serious the situation was before. But he hadn’t really thought about it. Not really. Not about how serious it was for Fenris. “Shit,” he whispers, and sets his own plate down. “I’m sorry. I’ve been just—“

“No, you don’t—“ Fenris shakes his head and drops his hands. His eyes shine, but he is not crying. “You shouldn’t be apologizing. You’re the only reason—they had me, they would have had me, but you went after them alone. Eight of them.”

Ellen is nosing at Fenris’s abandoned breakfast, so Anders leans forward and scoops her up. “Trust me, I would have picked up Hawke if I’d had the time.”

“I owe you a debt.”

“Oh, please, you don’t owe me anything—“

“I do. You could have been killed.”

“And all for a man who hates my guts.” Anders half-grins. Fenris lifts an eyebrow. Bad time for humor. “No, really, I would have been an ass not to do it. There’s no debt. I mean it.”

Ellen squeaks and hops up on the bed again, arranging herself inside Fenris’s crossed legs. He pets her absently. “What happened after we left?”

Anders finishes the story. Fenris finishes his toast. That’s good. He also begins to nod as the tale continues, jumping in at a couple of points to declare, with no small relief, that he remembers certain moments Anders has just described: dismounting the horse, something Alfonse said, his first spoonful of soup. Anders examines him afterwards and finds his symptoms largely gone; his eyes are back to normal, he performs fine movements without difficulty, and on gripping Anders’s finger he nearly breaks it.

Anders sits back, rubbing his finger. “Well, I think that poison’s out of your blood. D’you have any idea who those people were?”

“Mercenaries, I’d venture. They were all Marchers, you said?”

“Looked like it.”

“Hm. A local company. I will investigate.”

“If you need help killing them again, just knock on my door.”

Fenris watches him for a moment. Anders shrinks slightly. “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. It’s just—I am unused to this.”

“What, someone helping you?”

“Someone risking their life for me.”

Anders snorts. “Pretty sure we both do that about twice a week—“

“That is different. There are four of us. You were alone.”

That’s…a fair point. Anders is used to receiving thanks—he is a healer, after all—but not like this. And not from Fenris. “Well…” He shrugs. “Aren’t I allowed to play the dashing hero sometimes? Hawke can’t hog all the glory.”

Fenris smiles. “Hardly playing. You killed eight men and came away with only an injured leg.”

Anders glances down. The ankle is still covered by his trouser leg. “How did you know?”

“You were limping. You are a healer, are you not? You should take care of it.”

Anders waves a hand. “It’s fine, I’ll worry about it later—“

“Mage.” Fenris rubs his forehead. “Please heal your injury. Call it a favor to me.”

“I…oh. All right.” He rolls his trouser leg up. The ankle is bruised and swollen, and stiffer this morning than it was last night. He lays a hand on it.

Fenris rises. “I should go. I have imposed on you enough.”

“I’ll walk you back up to Hightown as soon as I’m finished here,” Anders says.

Fenris lets out an annoyed sigh. “As I told you one second ago, I have imposed on you enough.”

“Look, you say you owe me a debt? Pay me back by letting me come with you.”

He makes a noise of frustration. “You— _fine._  Let me go put on my armor.” He leaves the bedroom.

“Don’t you dare run away while I’m stuck in here!” Anders calls. Fenris only glances over his shoulder.

He does not run, as it turns out. Anders emerges from the bedroom a minute later, his ankle really feeling much better now. “Shall we?”

Ellen trots out of the clinic with them. She peels off before they reach the stairs. Fenris watches her disappear down a winding alley.

They go to the estate, as Anders had thought they might. Hawke is there, still in his housecoat, and when Fenris embraces him he embraces Fenris right back. Anders stands on the steps and tries not to roll his eyes. They’re in love—obviously, excruciatingly in love—and have been for about five years, but for some baffling reason they  _still_ aren’t together. Anders sort of wishes they would hurry it up. All those lingering looks of deep, unspoken longing are starting to get painful. Fenris relays what happened and then Hawke turns to Anders and hugs him too. Hawke is very large, and very good at hugs.

Anders leaves the two of them to talk and do whatever else they get up to in that manor. No doubt there’s already a queue forming in front of his clinic. Ester comes first, of course, after he so rudely abandoned her yesterday.

He descends the stairs, shading his eyes from the sun.

It is indeed a long day, and he doesn’t close his doors until well after dark. As he strips down to his trousers, he tries to figure out how many patients he treated. Three dozen? Four? Not bad. And on top of it all, that strange, intense look of gratitude on Fenris’s face this morning. Anders smiles to himself. He did good today. Really good.

_Not enough._

His smile disappears.

 _I just wanted one day,_  he thinks sullenly.  _Was that too much to bloody ask?_

No answer. A small blessing. He crawls into bed and drags the covers up over him. There’s a high-pitched squeak, and a set of cautious paws climb over his legs. Sounds like Ellen. Anders turns his face into the pillow and discovers it smells…good. Why does—oh. Because Fenris slept here. Anders flips on his back, mildly embarrassed. Ellen squeaks, disturbed, then settles down against his calf.

“At least you think I did good today,” he mutters. “Don’t you, Ellen?”

She squeaks in affirmation. (Probably.)

Anders shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

——

“—careful, if he can kill seven people by himself—“

“Maker’s breath, Osmond, we  _know._ Now get a hold of yourself and focus.”

Anders squints.

Light. Flickering light in his room. He thought he put out all the candles.

 _“Shit,_  he’s waking up. Now!”

The covers flung back, and rough hands on his bare skin. Who’s—

The smite tears through him.

Pain. Not physical. He is cut in half. He arches his back and screams. It goes on and on. He screams louder, his throat harsh and dry from it. He cannot feel the Veil. He cannot feel Justice. And still the pain, acid in the wound.

At last they step away. Anders falls back to the bed, gasping. Through the blur of tears he sees three shapes above him.

“All right!” one of them says. “Let’s sit him down and have a little chat.”

Rough hands. They pull him out of the bed. His legs don’t work. He can’t move. They don’t care. They drag him across the floor and dump him in a chair. His arms are tugged behind his back, and a thick cord wraps around his wrists.

Fingers dig into his cheeks and lift his face. A young man, leering. “Always thought it was shameful, the knight-commander just letting you run free down here. But you won’t be doing much of that after tonight, will you?”

The word at last falls into place.  _Templars._

The three of them gaze down at him. A second word falls into place.  _Fucked._

——

Another blow to the ribs.

Anders hears the snap and coughs. One more broken. That makes eleven, he thinks. He tries to spit out the blood seeping into his mouth but doesn’t have the strength, and it just dribbles out instead. His head hangs. Strings of red saliva sway from his lips.

A sharp slap across the cheek. “Oi! Still with us, healer?”

“Yes. Unfortunately,” Anders mumbles.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been at him. A long time. They show no signs of slowing. He hurts, very much. Broken nose. Broken ribs. Broken fingers. It’s bad, yes. But the worst part is how they took away his magic. The Veil is gone from his senses. He’s so used to feeling it all around him, a weapon of which he could not be disarmed. Until now, of course. Now he’s defenseless. Completely and utterly defenseless.

“We  _know_  you’re in contact with Kirkwall’s blood mages.” Absurd. The templar isn’t even pretending he believes it. “Just start listing names, that’s all we want.”

“Sod off.” Ow. Speaking is painful. His mouth is cut up from all the blows.

Like the one the templar deals him now. A backhand. Anders’s head whips to the side, and his teeth open up the inside of his cheek. Then the man draws his knife again. Shit. Anders squeezes his swollen eyes shut. His chest, arms and stomach are sliced to ribbons by now, and yet they keep finding new patches of unbroken skin to break. Burning pain over his lower ribs, and Anders flinches and, to his eternal embarrassment, whimpers slightly.

They’re going to kill him. He doesn’t know why—why after all these years they decided to come after him at last—but their questions are half-hearted at best, and they haven’t even mentioned dragging him up to the Gallows. This interrogation is a sham. They just want to hurt him first before they finish the job, because they’re templars and he’s a mage and that’s the way things are. This is it. He’s going to die, bloody and beaten, without even putting up a fight.

 _“Shit—_ what in the Void? Is that a rat?”

Anders opens his eyes.

The templar in front of him—Winston, he heard one of the others say, the worst one—peers into the back. “No, you idiot, it’s a cat.”

Anders twists. Ellen? He was wondering where she’d got off to—

“So, you have pets, do you?” Winston grins. “Osmond, grab the bloody thing!”

“What?” Anders looks up at him. “What are you—she’s just a cat!”

A surprised squeak and some crashing. Anders twists again. One of the other templars is in pursuit. Ellen, chased out of the kitchen, backs now into the main room, her ears flattened. “What are you  _doing?!”_ Anders yanks once more at the cords binding his wrists. “She’s just a cat!”

Winston laughs. “Seems like you care more about that thing than you do yourself.”

The templar lunges. Ellen darts back in a gray flash, clambering onto Anders’s desk. The next grab she leaps away from, and she races to the door only to find it’s locked shut. Another terrified squeak. Anders pulls at his bindings, pulls and pulls, but all it does is dig the wounds at his wrists even deeper. She’s trapped. They’ll get her eventually. “She’s just a cat!” Anders shouts, his voice frantic, cracking. “Leave her alone, she hasn’t done anything to you!  _She’s just a cat!”_

A knock at the door. “Who are you shouting at?”

Fenris’s voice.

Anders’s chest seizes so hard it hurts, and he lets out a broken sob of relief. Then there’s a knife-trip pressed hard against his cheek. “Get rid of that bloke or you lose the eye,” Winston hisses.

Anders freezes. There’s probably some strategy to use here, to signal that something’s wrong while pretending he’s fine, but his mind is too clouded with pain and terror and the sharp edge of that knife digging into his skin to think of it. Instead he just calls out, “It’s nothing, the cats were—were fighting—“

A noise of distaste. “Of course they were. Will you let me in?”

Shit. “It’s—it’s the middle of the night.”

“So? You’re awake. I have a question.”

The knife-tip crawls higher. Anders flinches. “I—can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

A second’s silence. “I’ll be quick.”

Anders can’t think anymore. He’s too exhausted, too afraid. “Please, Fenris, don’t—“ Another sob, which he tries to suppress but it wrenches out of him anyway.  _“Please,_  just leave it be, just leave me here. Just go back to Hightown.”

No reply. For a moment nothing happens.

Then there’s a terrific crack, and the door bursts open. Fenris enters the clinic, his greatsword on his back. Behind him Ellen streaks away into the night.

The knife leaves Anders's face—thank the Maker—as Winston steps up. "This isn't your business, elf.”

Fenris's eyebrows lift in mild surprise as he surveys the scene before him, but then his expression grows disinterested once more. "Templars, I take it?"

They aren't in uniform (except for the sword-belts), but it's not a bad guess. Who else could incapacitate a mage so easily? Winston narrows his eyes. "As I said, this is no business of yours. Be on your way."

"Winston, he’s—be  _careful_ —“

One of the other two, staring at Fenris in horror. Anders knows Fenris goes with the templars sometimes on blood mage hunts. Apparently he's been recognized. Fenris makes no move to leave. Instead he just considers the gathered company for a tense few moments.

Then he asks, "Who is paying you?"

“No one’s paying us!“ Winston snaps. "We're just doing our job! Cleaning up apostates!"

"I think not," Fenris replies. "Meredith is courting the Champion quite ardently these days, and she knows he and Anders are close. If she takes the mage, she loses Hawke. One apostate is a poor prize for the damage that will do. Not to mention you’ve decided to torture him here instead of taking him back to the Gallows. You’re not here on behalf of the templars. So, I repeat: who is paying you?”

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Winston hisses. “Leave. Now.”

“No,” Fenris says simply. “The three of you are the ones who will be leaving, in fact. After you answer my question.”

Winston comes closer, until the two of them are only inches apart. “We’re going to stay here just as long as we damned well please. And you’re going to turn around and walk away,  _elf._  Or I’m going to make you.” He lays a hand on the hilt of his sword.

 _“Do not raise your blade to me!”_ Fenris barks.

The absolute authority in his voice makes even Anders flinch— _ow,_  broken ribs shifting as he moves. Where did that come from? Winston is frozen, flabbergasted, his fingers hovering in midair.

Meanwhile, Fenris is calm as ever.

“I have made no threats of violence. So I do not understand why you respond to me with violence. Do you have a desire to fight me?” Fenris nods over Winston’s shoulder. “I believe your friend here has seen me in battle. Perhaps you should let him advise you.”

“Don’t do it, mate.” The templar shakes his head. “Don’t bloody do it. That elf’s dangerous.”

“I only wish for you to tell me who hired you and then return from whence you came,” Fenris says. “No more than that. I will be happy to let you go, and even to fight at your side again if I am called upon. So, if you would:  _who is paying you?”_

“And if we don’t tell you?” Winston whispers.

Fenris shrugs. “Then I will find out another way. Although this other way may involve your superiors gaining knowledge of this plot. You know how investigations are.”

“Lord Crabtree!”

Fenris’s eyes flick over Anders’s shoulder.

The templar babbles. “He said the healer killed seven of his men—“  _shit,_  Anders thinks, must have left one of them alive, what a stupid bloody mistake— “and to come down here and kill him, leave the body so everyone thinks it was just some random murder. I’m sorry, we won’t come back here, I promise.  _Please.”_

Fenris jerks his head. “You may go.”

The two templars in the back stumble out of the clinic with haste. Fenris waits while Winston stares him down a few more seconds; but then he leaves as well.

The door swings gently shut.

Fenris comes forward. “I don’t suppose you heard their names?”

Anders spits blood weakly on the ground. “Winston, Osmond…Sigard, I think?”

“Good. Thank you.” Fenris kneels behind him and begins to untie his wrists.

“You’re—planning to turn them in to Meredith?”

“That is correct.”

Anders laughs, sort of, but his ribs  _hurt,_  and the laugh chokes off into a strangled whine.

“You should not strain yourself. This looks—rather serious.”

“Feels that way too,” Anders gasps. His wrists fall free, and he raises his arms. His hands are curled. He tries to move his fingers, with limited success.

Fenris comes around, crouching in front of him. “Can you heal yourself?”

Anders shakes his head. “They suppressed my magic. Won’t be back for…I don’t know. Hours. They did it a few more times than they really needed to. It hurts, you see. Side benefit.”

Fenris watches him for a moment. Something there—empathy, maybe? “Can you stand? I would wash your wounds.”

Anders nods and, slowly, rises to his feet. That hurts too. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts. Fenris goes around him into the back. Anders stares down at his chest and stomach. Covered. He’s covered in blood.

His throat tightens, and he hides his face behind his broken hands.

Movement through his fingers. Fenris’s uncertain voice. “Is—is something wrong?”

“Not really. Just crying, that’s all. Completely embarrassing myself. Don’t mind me.” And of _course_  that hurts too, when the tears seep into the cuts on his face. Salt in the wound. Literally.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Also, this is going to sting.”

A wet, soapy cloth hits his chest. Anders flinches, hissing through his teeth. Fenris grasps his waist to hold him steady. Surprisingly enough, that doesn’t hurt. Well. That’s astonishing. “Will you need any stitches?” Fenris asks.

Anders scrubs at his face, then drops his hands. “No. None of the cuts were very deep.”

Fenris works with patience and care. Anders finds he is shivering. No reason for that. He isn’t cold. “They were going to kill me,” he whispers. “They were really going to kill me. I almost died.”

Fenris’s jaw tightens. “Yes. I—I apologize. If you had not had to come after me yesterday, that noble would not have set those templars on you.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Anders mutters. “It’s this Lord Crabtree bastard. What did he want with you, anyway?”

“Hawke mentioned him the other day,” Fenris says. “Money problems, I believe. I suspect he heard a rich magister was looking for me and thought he’d hire a handful of mercenaries to try his luck at the reward. I will investigate.”

“That might require a delicate hand. Nobles carry a lot of weight here. Easy to get crushed.”

“I will ask Hawke to investigate.”

Anders flinches as Fenris’s hand runs over a patch of broken ribs. “Hey—what were you doing here in the middle of the night, anyway? You said you had a question?”

Fenris falters. “I—yes. This morning when we spoke, I remembered some of what had happened to me. Not much, but some.”

“Right.”

“Tonight I tried to remember these things again and found I could not. The memories were gone. I was going to wait until the morning to ask you about it but—I was…afraid.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Of losing more memories. Is this—is it just what happened while I was poisoned? Or will I begin to forget other things as well?”

“Oh!” Anders shrugs. “Well, I can’t be sure, but I highly doubt it. I think that poison made it hard for you to create new memories, and the ones you did manage to create were probably fragile. But anything else should stick around like it’s supposed to.”

Fenris nods, a few degrees of tension going out of him. “That…is good to hear.”

They’re quiet for a bit. Fenris goes to the back again and returns with another wet cloth to wash away the soap. It still hurts. Anders watches him work. He is gentle, as or gentle as he can be with Anders in this condition. “Fenris? Er—thank you.”

Fenris looks up.

“Really,” Anders says. “They could have turned on you. That would’ve destroyed your relationship with the templars, at the very least. And I know that’s important to you. So I just—I know you hate me, I  _know,_  but it means a lot that you’d do that for me.”

Fenris just stares at him for a moment with baffled incredulity. Anders cringes. “Sorry—did I say something wrong?”

“You mentioned that yesterday as well. That I—what was your phrase? ‘Hate your guts?’ “

“Oh. Well—don’t you?”

“No, I don’t hate you!”

Anders gapes slightly. What?

“How could I hate you?” Fenris flings a hand up. “You heal the sick without charging any coin, you’ve saved my life a hundred times or more. You charge into battle with demons and bandits and Tal-Vashoth regardless of danger, just for the chance to do something good. And Hawke likes you. So no, I do not hate you.”

“But—but we fight all the time!”

“Disagreement does not preclude respect.”

For a minute Anders doesn’t know what to say. Then he covers his face again.

“What? What is it?”

“Just crying again. There, are you happy?”

A noise of disgust. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

By the time he returns—with bandages this time—Anders has mastered himself. He takes a deep— _ow—_ breath. “If it helps, I don’t hate you either. For most of the same reasons you said about me, except the healing the sick part. I’ve got a monopoly on that one.”

Fenris grunts and starts wrapping Anders’s chest.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends, does it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“By the way, I am staying here tonight.”

“Oh, come on. They won’t be coming back, you saw their faces when they left.”

“I am not worried about templars. I’m worried about thieves. Your door no longer works.”

Anders glances up at the door, which hangs open slightly, the latch destroyed in Fenris’s violent entrance. “Oh.”

“You should change your clothes. I’ll get you some water.”

His trousers  _are_  somewhat bloodied. Anders shuffles into his bedroom and changes. It hurts and takes a long time. When he shuffles back out Fenris is standing there with a cup of water. “Here.”

Anders lifts his broken hands. “If I try and hold it I’m going to drop it.”

Fenris rolls his eyes and lifts the cup to Anders’s lips, tipping it back. It tastes like sweetest wine. Anders flaps his hand, so Fenris refills the cup from the pitcher in the corner and they repeat the process. “Also, the cat is here again,” Fenris says.

“The cat? Ellen?”

 _“That’s_  its name?”

 _“Her_  name, thank you. And yes, what’s wrong with Ellen?”

“Nothing, I suppose. The grey one?”

“From this morning? Yes, that’s her.” Anders goes to the kitchen—and there she is, eating placidly from the saucer in the corner. He leans against the threshold and gazes at her, overcome for a moment with relief that that bastard of a templar didn’t manage to get his hands on her.

Fenris sighs. “Would you like me to bring her?”

“Could you? When she’s done eating?”

“Fine.”

Anders goes back to the bedroom and scoops up some blankets, piling them at the head of the bed. Lying flat with broken ribs is extremely unpleasant. As soon as he’s settled down Fenris comes in, bearing Ellen. “Here.”

Anders holds his arms out. “Thank you.”

“Your pantry is pathetic, by the way. No wonder you’re so thin.”

“Listen, I’m a busy man, all right? I don’t have time to go food shopping.”

“You realize food is a basic necessity, do you not?”

“Well, I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Not for lack of trying, it seems.” He deposits Ellen on top of Anders’s knees. She squeaks, climbing up his legs. “I will keep watch outside.”

Anders pulls the covers up his chest. “This is weird.”

“What?”

“We’re getting along.”

Fenris shrugs. “I can change that, if you prefer.”

“That might be for the best. Not until I’m feeling better, though.”

“As you wish.”  

Anders stares at the ceiling, petting Ellen clumsily. The Veil is still denied to him, a great, cold void in his senses. Fenris turns and heads out to the main room. But as he listens to the door creaking shut, Anders decides he isn’t so defenseless after all.


End file.
